One and Only by Jenny Holiday (4)

When Jane woke up, she immediately knew two things.

First, she wasn’t in her own bed. The mattress beneath her was too soft—soft beds like this one weren’t good for your back. Her own mattress had been carefully selected for its spine-supporting properties.

The second thing Jane knew with instantaneous certainty was that she was hung over.

Utterly, totally, embarrassingly hung over.

It had happened once before, during orientation week at university. She’d awakened with a mouth full of cotton. Her head had felt like it was in the middle of a demolition zone. Oh, the shame of it. She might as well have walked around the quad that next day wearing a giant sandwich board that said, “Hi. I lost control. I made a fool of myself. Other people had to take care of me.”

Ever since their dad died, her brother Noah had taken care of her. Their mom had checked out, lost in her own grief and barely able to function, and Noah had stepped in to provide for them, both financially and emotionally. She’d tried to make it easy for him. To be good and avoid trouble. What would he have thought of her then?

What would he think of her now?

At least she wasn’t in a strange bed. It wasn’t hers, but, as she opened her eyes a tiny bit, wincing against the brightness in the room, she recognized the pale green walls and crown moldings as Elise’s work. She was in Jay’s guest room. She and the girls occasionally crashed here when they were out late downtown.

Well, there was nothing to do but get on with things. The bachelorette party was Saturday and she was going to Comicon Sunday, so that left two days in which to finish her Xena costume and, hopefully, to make some progress on the book before she pretty much had to take a deep breath and let the wedding tsunami sweep her away. But it would depend on what Elise expected on an ongoing basis in terms of babysitting.

God, she was so hot. Why was it so hot in here? She flung the covers off.

Wait.

There was one thing Jane hadn’t noticed immediately when she woke up.

And that would be the arm slung across her body.

The very male, muscle-bound arm.

She closed her eyes against that arm like it was blinding sunlight. Oh dear God. Had she slept with Cameron MacKinnon?

She couldn’t remember. Her brain, despite its pain, did a quick catalog of all the times he had been surprisingly chivalrous: offering to help her out of the Corvette, insisting she order first at the steakhouse, steadying her on the bar stool last night. That guy wouldn’t take advantage of her. But the gentlemanly, almost old-fashioned way he behaved was so at odds with the ludicrous, arrogant things that came out of his mouth. He was a mass of contradictions.

A mass of contradictions she prayed to God she hadn’t slept with. The image of Cameron licking the ice cream spoon at the steakhouse popped into her mind. Heck, if she was going to break her self-imposed five-year dry spell, it would be nice to be able to remember something about it. She opened her eyes and tried to crane her neck so she could see him without moving too much and disturbing him. The arm was bare, but was the rest of him?

Yes, yes he was.

And he was wide awake.

He was covered in tattoos. She had known he would be. A sleeve of them ran down one arm—a forest of sorts, trees bleeding into more trees, interspersed with the occasional flower. His chest was covered with an image of an angel in a flowing white gown that was so hauntingly beautiful—it looked like a Renaissance painting—it made her gasp. No co-opted tribal bullshit on this guy.

And muscles. Everywhere muscles. He was a soldier, sure, but still, how was that possible? How did he just walk around with so much contained power as if it were no big deal?

He shot her a lazy grin. God, his jawline—you could cut glass with that jaw.

Maybe she could use it to slit her wrists.

Then that maddening, slow drawl: “Good morning, Jane. Sleep well?”

It wasn’t nice to laugh at people when they were panicking. Cam knew that in his mind. But it was damn near impossible not to laugh in this specific instance. Witnessing Jane regain consciousness and then really regain consciousness had been hilarious. He’d been lying there, listening to her breathe, willing his morning wood to go away. That was probably a lost cause, though. She was so soft and pliant—when she was asleep.

He’d been a jerk to agree when she insisted he share the bed. He’d been fully prepared to decamp to Jay’s sofa last night, but when she’d grabbed his hand and pulled him down with her, then snuggled up against him and fallen promptly asleep…well, no one was that virtuous. And to his great surprise, when she was asleep, prickly Jane was a snuggler. He wasn’t complaining. Well, he was in the sense that his plan had been to wake up this morning cuddling with a woman with whom he’d had scorching sex the night before. But still, the human contact was nice. He’d missed it. And sleepy, snuggly Jane—as opposed to awake, talking Jane—was actually kind of pleasant.

But sleepy, snuggly Jane was gone. She sat bolt upright. “Please tell me we didn’t…” She was clutching the sheet over her chest, which wasn’t necessary because although he’d gotten her out of her jeans and blazer—they’d just seemed way too uncomfortable to sleep in—he hadn’t fully undressed her. He wasn’t that much of a jerk, and the idea that she might think he was pained him a little. He had even averted his eyes when he was pulling her jeans off.

Her eyes roamed his chest. Right. Women always went crazy for his tattoos. He readied himself to trot out the half-true version of what they meant that he deployed in these sorts of situations, but she didn’t ask. She met his gaze again and did that single-eyebrow-lifting thing that was so maddening. “Answer me. Did we sleep together?”

“Depends what you mean by ‘sleep,’” he countered, trying to get her to stop looking at him like she was Mary Poppins waiting for him to clean his room.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, and she fell back onto the bed. She swallowed hard, the way people do when they’re trying not to cry.

“Hey, hey, I’m sorry. I was only teasing,” he rushed to assure her. “Nothing happened.”

“Really?”

“Jesus Christ, Jane, give me a little credit.” What kind of man did she think he was? But of course the answer to that question wasn’t very flattering, was it, given what she had seen of him yesterday?

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think we had…done anything, but…” She looked around the room, and her eyes landed on her blazer, which he’d draped over a chair in the corner.

“You were pretty drunk,” he said, and she massaged her temples and nodded her agreement. “I was going to put you in a cab, but it…didn’t seem wise. So I suggested you sleep here. You agreed. But then you…”

“Then I what?”

“I was going to sleep on the couch, but you wouldn’t let me. You kind of…tackled me, actually.”

She nodded. “Right.”

He cocked his head. He had been prepared for more arguing, to have to defend himself a lot more vigorously.

“I can be very adamant when I have my mind set on something,” she said. “And I’m sure alcohol only intensifies it. I’m sorry.”

Well, knock him over with a feather. “Hey, it’s okay.” He pushed the covers off, intending to get up and get dressed, but she shrieked and clasped her hands over her eyes. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m wearing boxers.”

She spread her fingers enough that she could peek through them, and once she’d confirmed that he was, in fact, not naked, she let them fall. Not the usual reaction, to say the least.

“How do you feel?” he asked, walking around to her bedside table, where he’d left a glass of water and a bottle of Advil. “I made you drink as much water as I could last night, but you should probably have some more.” He handed her the glass.

She tipped her head back and drank. She was wearing a loose, low-cut, silky T-shirt, and he was a human male who had only recently woken up. Predictable things happened. But, thankfully, she didn’t see. He cleared his throat. “Then maybe some coffee when you’re done with that?”

She moaned when he said “coffee,” which wasn’t helping matters south of the equator. In addition to sleepy, snuggly Jane, there was something to be said for this version with the messed-up hair and the low, throaty moan.

He threw on a pair of jeans. He needed to get out of here. “Let’s get some food into you, too. I’ll see what I can throw together.”

“Is Jay home?” she whispered. “Oh my God, is Elise here?” She fumbled for her phone on the nightstand and scrolled through her texts. “Oh, no, the girls are doing more teapots this morning.” She sighed in relief.

“Doing more teapots? What does that mean?”

“I have no idea.”

When Jane made her way into the kitchen ten minutes later, she felt considerably less like she wanted to die. She’d brushed her hair, swished with some of Jay’s mouthwash, and put herself together as best as she could. She was back in control.

“Crap.”

Cameron turned from where he was standing over the stove, poised with a spatula in his hand. “Everything okay?”

Had she said that out loud? So much for back in control. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

It was just that, confronted with Cameron MacKinnon, with his bare feet poking out of faded jeans and his mass of tattoos only partially concealed by a white tank top, standing at a stove cooking, whatever control she thought she’d gained vanished like a sugar cube melting into a cup of—

“Coffee?”

She shivered as she accepted the mug and a small carton of cream from him. “Can I help?”

“Nah.” He gestured to the stools at the breakfast bar that overlooked the kitchen.

He turned back to the stove. God. There was something about the unlikely image of the big manly man padding around the kitchen, totally at ease that…did something to her.

“If I had to guess how you take your eggs, I’d say poached,” he said as he pivoted to retrieve some toast that had just popped.

“That’s exactly right!” she exclaimed.

“Which is why I scrambled them,” he said, smirking as he slid a plate in front of her.

She rolled her eyes. But it was good to be reminded that Cameron MacKinnon, despite the solid he’d done her last night, was still, elementally, a jerk.

“Easier,” he said. “Way less fussy.”

“Wow,” she said, her voice intentionally flat. “Eggs as metaphor for personality. How original.”

“I do make a pretty mean hollandaise, though,” he said, delivering her a couple slices of toast and a dish of butter. “But I only make eggs Benedict for women who actually sleep with me.”

The sound of throat clearing came from behind them. Jane whirled.

“Jay!”

On the surface of things, Jay was dressed not unlike his brother. He also wore a white tank, but instead of jeans, it was paired with blue pajama bottoms.

“Jane,” he said, making his way to the coffeemaker and pouring himself a cup. “Fancy meeting you here.” He took a big gulp of coffee without doctoring it—and Jane knew he normally didn’t take his coffee black—before turning to Cameron. “And you. Thanks for waiting for me to get home last night before you took off.”

Whoa. Was this the first time Jay had seen his brother since Cameron had been back? She would have assumed they’d had their reunion last night, before Cameron went to the bar.

“Sorry about that,” said Cameron, talking to Jay but busying himself refilling the toaster with a new round of bread. “I’ve been cooped up since I landed back on Canadian soil. I needed to bust out.”

Jane was suffused with a growing discomfort. She wasn’t used to family conflict. Not since Dad had died. And not really before, either—he had mostly been a happy drunk. She certainly couldn’t imagine this kind of tension between her and her brother Noah.

“And I suppose your phone was conveniently dead last night, so you didn’t get my texts,” Jay said, moving around the breakfast bar to sit beside Jane. She didn’t miss the quick once-over he gave her, even as he kept talking to Cameron in the same deadpan-bordering-on-icy tone. “Or you lost it, maybe.”

“I didn’t sleep with your brother!” she shouted. She wasn’t sure if she was doing it to protect her own reputation or to try to diffuse some of the tension in the room.

Jay turned to her with the barest hint of a smile. “You always were the smart one in Elise’s crowd.” Then he turned to his brother and said…nothing. Wow. It was probably kind of crappy that Cameron hadn’t made contact with his brother yesterday, but, still, where was the “I’m glad you didn’t die in Iraq” welcome home man-hug?

Also, where was Doctor Phil when you needed him? Because Jane wasn’t good at this shit. She stuffed a piece of buttered toast—how was it possible that even Cameron’s toast was delicious?—in her mouth in order to avoid having to say anything.

She’d started on her second piece when she realized what she was doing. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed, spraying crumbs.

Both brothers turned to her with looks of concern so identical that they might have been amusing in a different context.

“I’m on a diet,” she mumbled, pushing her plate away. T-minus nine days till she had to pay the piper…if the piper was a size ten number in mulberry and not plum (the debate had raged for days) with a fitted bodice and a swingy skirt.

God. She allowed herself a moment of self-disgust. Of course, her plan to not only drop fifteen pounds but to, like, somehow magically acquire Michelle Obama arms so that her own wobbly ones didn’t look like bleached sausages at the wedding had come to naught.

“You don’t need to diet,” Cameron said. She didn’t know if his clenched jaw was residual anger at his brother or if it was new anger summoned just for her. But before she could decide, he turned and started rinsing dishes at the sink.

“One thing we actually agree on,” Jay said, turning to her. “Is this about the wedding? Is Elise on you about this, because God bless her—you know I adore her—but that is one step too far.”

“No, no,” she said, waving her hands dismissively. “Elise hasn’t said a word.” She got up, intending to deliver her dishes to the sink.

“Why are you here, Jane?” Jay asked, his brow furrowed as he looked between her and his brother.

“Someone has to rein in the black-sheep brother, right?” Cameron said, his back still to them as he banged around making quite the racket, moving dishes from the sink to the dishwasher. Bitterness radiated from him.

Jane approached with her dishes. “Nope,” she said. “I just went to meet Cameron’s plane yesterday since you were at work and Elise was busy.” Of course that went exactly zero of the way toward explaining why she was in Jay’s kitchen the next morning with her messy hair and her wrinkled clothes, but, suddenly, she didn’t want Jay knowing that Elise thought his brother needed babysitting. For the first time, she wondered how Cameron had felt yesterday when she, a complete stranger, had picked him up and then refused to leave him alone. “Cameron and I ended up at a bar last night.” That was true, if vague. “And I’m afraid I had a bit too much to drink, so Cameron brought me here.”

Jay seemed to accept her explanation. He downed the remainder of his coffee and stood. “I need to hit the shower and get out of here. I guess I’ll see you both later.”

No! Jane wanted to shout! Do a man-hug! Or shake hands, even! “It must be so great to have Cameron back from Iraq, huh, Jay?”

Cameron whipped his gaze to her. He was not pleased with her little outburst. But, damn, somebody had to make these two Neanderthals do the right thing. It wasn’t her fault that subtlety had never been her strong suit.

Jay cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah, it is.” He walked over to Cameron and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out in the army, but I’m glad you could make the wedding.” He sounded like he was reciting from a script, but at least it was something. Jane held her breath in the silence that followed. It was probably only a few seconds, but it seemed to stretch on forever.

“Thanks, man. It’s good to see you,” Cameron finally said, and she exhaled.

“So what are you up to today?” she asked Cameron once Jay had headed for the shower.

“Why? You still on duty?”

She had no idea, actually.

Like Cameron, she had been a delinquent texter last night. She had a bunch of them from Elise, but going back in time before the one telling her they were working on the mystery teapots again this morning, they were all of the “WHERE ARE YOU?” and “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” and “DID CAMERON BURN ANYTHING DOWN?” and “OMG, DID CAMERON KNOCK ANYONE UP?” variety.

“I’m not babysitting you,” she said firmly as she scrolled.

“Yes. You’ve mentioned that a few times.” He topped off her coffee, leaned over, and propped his elbows up on the breakfast bar so they were eye to eye.

“I was just wondering what your plans are for today.” She tried to project her voice because she was afraid it was going to come out as weak and wobbly as she felt. The hangover, the virile, tattooed personal chef: it was all a little overwhelming. But she’d overcompensated, and basically yelled the question at him.

He looked like he was trying not to laugh. “My plans are to get laid.”

Her eye roll was as involuntary. “Ow.”

“What?”

“I rolled my eyes so hard my eyeballs actually hurt.”

“Well, you asked. You also cock-blocked me last night, if you recall.”

Jane managed to keep her eyeballs reined in, but only just.

And of course that was the moment Jay emerged from the hallway, dressed in his usual weekday uniform of a navy suit.

“Keeping it classy, I see, brother,” Jay said.

“I always do,” Cameron shot back.

“I gotta get to work.” Without another word, or even a glance back, Jay collected his briefcase and phone from a table in the entryway and departed, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

Okay, WWTBD? What would the bride do? The answer, of course, was that the bride would continue to cock-block the hell out of Cameron. As much as Jane wanted to go home and sleep off her hangover, she needed to do the responsible thing and redirect this dude. Of course, she personally couldn’t care less if he slept with half of Toronto, and there were no barns in a city this size that he could burn down, but she was suffused with a general sense of foreboding nevertheless. Butterfly effect and all that.

So she pasted on a smile and said, “Let’s go to the CN Tower!” It was the first thing that popped into her head when she thought about what people did when they visited Toronto. But it was also the lamest thing she could have said. The CN Tower was where busloads of tourists from Middle America were disgorged by the hundreds.

“It’s actually on my list.”

“It is?” Mr. Black Sheep wanted to go to the biggest tourist trap in the city? And here she’d already been scouring her brain for edgier suggestions.

“Yeah, I have this thing where when I’m visiting somewhere, I like to go to the highest point if I can. Take in the view.”

She cocked her head. He really was kind of a mystery. “What’s the highest point in Thunder Bay?”

“Tower Mountain,” he said without hesitation.

“All right,” she said, slapping her hands on the marble breakfast bar and sliding off her stool. “I need to get changed.” And take about a thousand Advils. And talk Elise off the ledge. She glanced at her watch. She’d been going to suggest they meet there at eleven, which was two hours from now. But was that too long a gap? Could Cameron do any damage in the next two hours? He yawned, interlaced his fingers, and pressed his arms up and over his head, stretching like a cat. A very dangerous, tattooed, man-eating cat.

Woman-eating cat.

“I’ll meet you there at ten,” she said.